


Mistakes you don't regret

by ttired



Category: Formula E RPF, Motorsport RPF
Genre: (for certain values of sweet), M/M, and it was supposed to be sweet, but then as fate would have it and disqualifications would color it, it's an entirely weird animal now, it's not anything substantial, nobody deserved this, so yeah RIP good feelings Le Mans 2018, yo this is really just post-race garage fucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-27
Updated: 2018-06-27
Packaged: 2019-05-29 05:14:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15065912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ttired/pseuds/ttired
Summary: "You're here," is all Jean-Éric can stupidly put together, when he means: you're not at your garage celebrating your sister car's P3 finish, you’re not off mourning what should’ve been your podium, but like so often happens these days, Jean-Éric is pretty sure André knows what he meant."I am," André replies, and gets up slowly.--There are two men in a garage: one who's just learned what winning Le Mans feels like, and one who wants to remember.





	Mistakes you don't regret

**Author's Note:**

> Unrepentant pornography, slightly used and possibly crusty, final sale only.
> 
> For real though, this one giant hand-wave and really isn't great. It's also unnecessarily filthy in places, but it was meant to be a celebration. Then, what happened with the fuel restrictor penalty happened and I had to choose whether or not this was officially too much to post. In the end, I came to the conclusion that I believe it's worth remembering the twenty-four hours I was stupidly happy for my dumb scarf-wearing Parisian trashbag, so here we are -- bad porn _in memoriam_. I may eventually orphan this on principle, as we're now living in an alternate timeline.
> 
> Content warnings are at the end.
> 
> Title from Her's "Five Minutes" because I couldn't reasonably figure out how to turn any part of the lyrics to "disco tits" into a title.

"Jev."

Jean-Éric hears his name called, but he’s uncoordinated and distracted so he pretty much forgets to react -- it doesn't immediately even register, if he's being honest, thoughts and emotions and champagne coalescing into a wall of noise that barely allows any external input to penetrate.

It’s worse, actually, now that he’s sequestered away from the crowd. Jev’s slunk off preferring the almost deafening silence of the back rooms of the G-Drive garage whilst everyone else is still outside with the mob screaming and crying and doing all the things he can't really let himself do, not when half his brain is still strapped in from spending the last hour in the car doing everything within his power to just keep his shit together. Although, now that he's by himself, there are signs of the win processing its way through his body -- fine tremors in his hands, the slackening of his grip on the neck of the jeroboam of Mumm he half chugged without reservation, half upended on himself. The garland around his neck has started to feel heavy, and maybe, maybe now alone with the spare tires, the dirty towels, printouts, the computers on standby waiting to be used again, maybe it's OK to be something more than furiously relieved --

\-- except, wait, he's not alone. Someone said his name earlier, that someone’s clearing their throat now, and like the jagged delay between thunder and lightning, Jean-Éric jerks his head up, and there’s André. His expression is mild, but his eyes are dark, and he’s sitting backwards on one of the fold-up chairs at the engineering table watching Jean-Éric with an aggressively casual display of ownership, Jev has to take a second to glance around to make sure he didn’t somehow wander into the Rebellion shed at the other end of the pits by accident. How in the fuck did André get in here?

"You're here," is all Jean-Éric can stupidly put together, when he means: you're not at your garage celebrating your sister car's P3 finish, you’re not off mourning what should’ve been your podium, but like so often happens these days, Jean-Éric is pretty sure André knows what he meant.

"I am," André replies, and gets up slowly, moving with a kind of measured, deliberate nonchalance that prickles along Jean-Éric's skin.

André walks up to him, right up to him, and presses them flush at the hips, pushes Jean-Éric lightly until Jean-Éric lets himself be guided back against the a used tire stack, and then sinks into him and pushes them together everywhere with a sigh. The grit and grease on the patches of exposed skin puts fingerprints on the white of André’s suit, the champagne and sweat saturating Jean-Éric's nomex bleeding onto André's thermals as André crushes their chests together exposed where he's tied his own race suit off at the waist. André leans forward, Jev feeling the whole six kilos his teammate has on him press down to flatten the evergreen of his victor's garland between them in a way that has to be frankly uncomfortable for André -- the holly is prickly, it was itching Jean-Éric earlier -- all whilst carding his hands through Jev's hair. André’s not quite pulling at it, but tangles his fingers into the strands with enough grip to guide Jean-Éric's face up all the same, and just looks at him, his blue eyes too bright, too close. Jev wishes he could blame the way he’s anticipating André’s next touches on the alcohol in his system, on the high of the race, but it’d be a lie. He should know better than to trust someone with such a single-minded investment in taking him apart, but had you asked him back when he and André fell in together, so embarrassingly close to the start of the season, he wasn’t prepared for how intimately André was willing to go about it. 

Jean-Éric opens his mouth to probably do something absolutely fucking awful, like apologize for André's shitty race, but André takes his inhale as an invitation to press their foreheads together and kiss Jean-Éric full-on, and it's -- seriously fucking filthy, a little too much tongue maybe but André’s teeth on his lower lip biting lightly with increasing pressure, like he’s being bruised for flavor -- it gets Jean-Éric to squirm even as he gasps into André's mouth because it is _exactly_ what he wants oh _shit_ \--

André pulls back and hums thoughtfully.

"I'm so sorry, I’m --" well shit, so much for having anything approaching tact; Jean-Éric winces even as he flushes in embarrassment. "Sorry."

And Jean-Éric's not sure what he's apologizing for the second time: André's race, or trying to apologize for it at all in the first place.

"I'm not," André replies and just shrugs, smiling in the lopsided way he sometimes does when he's on the joke and no one else really is.

It's -- an inaccessible expression, and really not the emotional doghouse he wanted to push André into, not right now. Jean-Éric wonders if he could get away with actually kicking himself a little without having to explain his sudden need for mild punitive self-harm.

"You drove so well, you -- and Neel and Bruno, you never gave up when almost anyone would've --" and Jean-Éric would laugh hysterically if it wouldn't make himself seem completely fucking unhinged, why is he still talking about André's race?

At least André is still touching him, his thumbs still stroking along the ridge of his sideburns just above his ears. The touch keys his nerves up to point where Jean-Éric knows he'll start shivering from it a minute; it's a sensitive spot. André's probably trying to get him to shut his mouth, a subtle suggestion Jean-Éric would love to comply with, were it not for his sudden case of verbal diarrhea. At the very least, if Jev can’t figure out how to shut his mouth, he needs to stop making things worse. "You deserved better."

"Anyone who finishes the race always feels like they deserved better," André says after a minute. "That's just Le Mans."

Jean-Éric opens his mouth to reply, but André pulls one hand away from his hair and presses it over his lips instead, raises his eyebrows and looks at him in clear warning.

"We're not talking about my race," André says. "Not when I want to fuck the taste of victory champagne out of your mouth."

Jean-Éric doesn't whimper, exactly, but whatever the soft noise he can’t help but make certainly isn't dignified, and he licks at André's palm all the same. He's -- letting Andre do that to him sounds like a really good fucking idea, honestly, and the sludge of whatever emotional/adrenal supersaturation from the lack of sleep and podium and winning -- the fucking winning -- is rearing its ugly head in a way he has every confidence André knows how to fix. God he's a Le Mans winner now, everyone who told him he was a garbage racer for one reason or another circa 2014 can go fuck themselves, but --

Right, the fact of him being a winner means someone will probably be looking for him soon.

André drags his palm away to hold Jean-Éric by the chin, and Jean-Éric takes the opportunity to say: "I don't think we have enough time," not at all sorry about how disappointed he sounds. “Roman mentioned something about sponsor club appearances on the platform earlier, that they’re going to be pretty much right after the race.”

Instead of backing off, André just slots his thigh in between Jean-Éric and grinds forwards lightly -- and yes, yes, OK, Jean-Éric is definitely hard, but that wasn't actually his point --

"I don't really think this'll take that long, do you?" André says smirking.

"Fuck you," Jean-Éric replies, somewhat lamely; he’s also not really trying to stop himself from indulging in whatever slow grind André's started up.

"Maybe later," André says, leaning in to kiss Jean-Éric's nose in an absurd if somehow inexplicably cute gesture.

Jean-Éric can't stop himself from snorting in a fit of ugly laughter he knows isn't endearing in the slightest, no matter how it makes the edges of André's eyes crinkle. "For now, though --"

André leans backwards, lets go of Jean-Éric long enough to take the garland off his neck and toss it haphazardly towards the table. It hits the far edge, momentum carrying it off the side and into a garbage bin, which -- Jean-Éric knows André couldn’t have possibly meant for that to happen, but it sets him off laughing in a way that has tears pricking the edges of his vision, has André giggling vicariously too. The laughing fit hasn’t handicapped Andre enough to stop his fingers from making quick work of the waist closures on his suit, though. Jean-Éric is still laughing a little when André slides down onto his knees and takes his cock out, although it becomes a little choked when the other man licks his way up his the length of it, occasionally rubbing the flat of his teeth along the shaft in a way that has Jean-Éric grabbing at his face and curling his toes.

André was right, this _really_ isn't going to take much at all, and Jev resigns himself to the small comfort that coming stupidly fast will just be another nail Jev can add to the coffin of this weirdly comfortable dynamic they’ve fucked their way into. He should've guessed he’d be breathtakingly easy for it, what with the way the arousal flooding his system is already making the room spin slightly. The dehydration of being last in the car -- especially without warning, Roman had just gifted it to him when he’d thought he was done -- must be catching up with his frank exhaustion and the half-liter of bubbly he’d drowned himself in, mostly to mute the shock of being on the podium at Le Mans at all. 

"Please just," Jean-Éric manages as André continues to do nothing much beyond mouth at his cock. "Can you please --"

"I can please what?" André mumbles, dipping down to lick his balls, and Jean-Éric fucking groans at that.

"Get on with it," Jean-Éric grits out. "Shit, André."

"I don't know," André muses, grimacing slightly as he gets back to his feet and wraps a hand around Jean-Éric's cock instead, jerking him with a grip just shy of being effective at getting him off -- stopping occasionally to rub his thumb around the crown with more than enough pressure, making both Jean-Éric and his cock jump from the sudden jolt of overstimulation. "I would think you'd have more of an appreciation for indulging my wanting to drag things out a bit, seeing as we just finished a day-long race --"

"André," Jean-Éric says, but can't really put together a respectable sentence to accompany his thoughts on the way the other man's touching him at the moment.

Jean-Éric lets his head loll back against the tires, rubbing the short hairs of his neck against the rough texture of the rubber, just for something, anything more concrete than what André is giving him. Jean-Éric feels mildly betrayed, he thought this was going to be a straightforward sort of fucking, not -- not --

"Look, give me just a little -- I don't," Jean-Éric pants, folding forwards into André, rubbing his face on the man's shoulder. "I'm almost, I could maybe -- just --"

"Yeah?" André murmurs, and bends down to lick along the shell of his ear, and it's nonsensical, Jean-Éric hasn't even really formulated a proper demand, but he finds himself nodding frantically.

"Hey, do you have something I could use for your ass? Like, anti-chafe or hand cream or something," André asks suddenly, in an almost conversational tone, and Jev is going to possibly murder him just as soon as he manages to wrangle an actual orgasm out of the Belgian asshole.

"That’s a little elaborate for a quickie, no?" Jean-Éric says, frustration and the slight cooling nervousness at the proposition of actually getting fucked in Rusinov's garage almost allowing him to enunciate his words properly despite André still working him over.

"We have ten minutes at least, more if I lock the door," André dismisses. "I mean, spit's always an option, but I hadn't wanted to make things difficult for you on the plane tomorrow --"

"Or you could go back to blowing me, that was actually quite nice," Jean-Éric grousses. "I was getting off, you were talking less --"

"Spit it is," André says cheerfully, and sticks two of his fingers into Jean-Éric's mouth when he lifts his head off the taller man's shoulder to complain.

Jean-Éric considers biting André for all of half a second, but clever fucking André takes the opportunity to change the seriousness of his grip on him -- not teasing, not now -- picking up both pace and pressure after rubbing his palm over the the head of Jev's cock to collect a little precome to ease the way. Jean-Éric feels his face heat, and what he’ll tell himself later is that it's too easy to just do as expected and suck on André's fingers. The way he's salivating now, he’s sort of getting André's whole hand sloppy with spit. André fault, since he’s kind of thrusting his fingers into his mouth a little, staring at the way they push past Jev’s lips. Jean-Eric hollows his cheeks a little, because if Andre’s going to watch him like that, he may as well make this as filthy as truly possible.

Andre lets out a heartfelt curse, and pulls his fingers out only to replace them immediately with his tongue, kissing Jean-Éric in a way that's completely consuming. He shoulders the Frenchman back against the tires again to get the leverage he needs to bend slightly and rub at the entrance to Jev’s ass even as he keeps up the pace and pressure on Jean-Éric's cock with his other hand. André has to break off the kiss to actually work a finger in, but switches to mouthing at Jean-Éric's neck, his collarbone, sucking at the skin there until Jean-Éric can't imagine what he's tasting other than his own spit. He's going to have marks, but the aching pressure contrasting the slight burn of André pushing in past the first knuckle has Jean-Éric biting his tongue in damage control, a moan slipping out anyway.

André stops touching his cock and concentrates on where he’s pushing in and out slowly, carefully into Jev -- changing the angle of his approach whilst watching Jean-Éric's face with a genuine concentration that makes Jean-Éric feel almost shy.

Jev’s hands are free, so he uses them to cover his face under the guise of pushing his hair back, but André's finger drags over exactly the right spot inside him just as he hides himself. It ruins Jev’s attempt at regaining his composure; he can't stop himself from jerking away slightly -- the sensation oddly shocky without more intent or pressure behind it. God, Jean-Éric realizes with a start, he still has his thermal top on, messy with alcohol and André's spit. It's sticking to him in the worst possible way, and he wants it off his skin so badly, and it gives him something to think about that isn’t how much he’s letting Andre take from him right now, but as he goes to grab at the edges of it, André pushes at his prostate with bastardly precision, and it takes Jean-Éric’s breath away. Jev might’ve momentarily forgotten he even has hands, his coordination entirely shot the longer Andre carries on rubbing at him like that. 

"You might want to keep it down, unless you want to spook a curious marshal into taking a look further inside the garage," André says, crouching to better angle his wrist in order to fuck into Jean-Éric. "Your voice echos."

"I hate you, you know that?" Jean-Éric says, voice breaking inelegantly on a particularly pointed thrust.

André smiles, and then works to pull down the waist of Jean-Éric's thermals to just above his knees, gaining a little more slack and access in the process. He places a frankly chaste kiss on the curve of Jev's hip, before spitting on the fingers he's pulled out of Jev's ass, this time fucking in with two. He’s crossing and scissoring them to try and work Jean-Éric open a little looser, but between Jev’s fraying nerves and spit being a shitty lubricant, it makes Jean-Éric hiss.

"You sure you don't have anything I can work with?" André asks again, a note of contrition entering his voice as he slows down a bit. "You're tight."

"My toilet bag, it's under the table, there should be some lotion --" Jev concedes, gesturing to a pile of bags a few feet away from where they're huddled.

André eases his fingers out and makes for the tucked-away belongings leaving Jean-Éric a moment to collect himself, which he uses mostly catch his breath and also to toss his absolutely rank turtleneck overhead and to the side. He debates taking his thermals and fire-proofs off entirely, but the sound of empty containers getting kicked over in the main garage followed by moderate volume cursing gatecrashes his mental hand-wringing and draws his gaze towards the door. Was someone listening to them? Doesn't seem super likely, the sounds coming from a little too far forwards by the roll-down, but --

A gentle palm to the side of his face has him turning and André there, nuzzling at his face. Jean-Éric lets out a breath he didn't even realize he'd been holding.

"Hey, seriously, you want me to lock the door?" André offers.

Jean-Éric knows the sexy and mischievous thing would be to grin and play up the thrill, but he's raw from the race; he can't shake the notion that people are watching and expecting things from him here in a way he hasn't had to deal with in a long while. It's a different paddock from Formula E, from F1 even -- very different, actually, since enduro's always seemed to operate in a deeply alien landscape, like the land time forgot. It also doesn't help, Jean-Éric admits to himself with a slight struggle, that he so fiercely wants to covet this moment between him and André -- keep it just theirs -- so he finds himself asking for what he wants instead of acting the way he feels André might like him to.

"Please," Jean-Éric nods, and closes his eyes.

André rubs his thumb along the ridge of his cheekbone, and then Jev can hear him retreating to the side door and pulling the inside latch that'll bar entry from the other side.

"Thank you," Jean-Éric says, not quite ready or willing to open his eyes again, already feeling too exposed by the stupid request to maintain their privacy.

The bare skin of his back against the sticky rubber of the used tires is oddly grounding. He feels less like his head is trying to float away from him at dizzying speeds, suddenly not really the over-eager mess he was a few minutes ago, although that's. Probably just a matter of André's hands on him -- a fact that Jean-Éric's brain points out helpfully _should_ maybe alarm him, hey, not just produce a sort of wry resignation, but he doesn't have it in him to be scandalized by himself today.

"Hey, come on," André murmurs, a sudden swell of heat against Jev's rapidly cooling skin eliciting a shudder as he peppers kisses along Jean-Éric's temple and jaw, rubbing their stubble together, his breath ghosting across Jean-Éric's face as he talks. "Let's get you to the table, yeah?"

"I'm -- sorry, I'm just out of it," and Jean-Éric realizes it's true; podium adrenaline isn't usually the only thing keeping him on his feet, and he'd be lying if he said he'd napped more than two hours in the last 30 or so. He doesn't remember this being so exhausting last year, doesn't remember having to pace himself so rigidly in the car, doesn't entirely understand why waiting to reclaim a two lap lead made it harder to sleep between stints.

"It's OK," André soothes. "Let me take care of you."

André licks his neck, lavishes attention on the sensitive shell of his ears again whilst scratching light circles along his back and ribs, and Jean-Éric can hear his breath catching audibly every so often, even as he sways closer to his teammate. He feels so ready, so attuned to André's touch, the random pattern of stroking blending into an all-encompassing kind of embrace -- Jev wishes they were in a bed, wishes André would just strip them naked so they could lie body to body and indulge in touching each other completely.

Jean-Éric opens his eyes and reaches out, pulling André's face towards him so he can demand a proper kiss, and André laughs into it, maintaining eye contact as he walks them over to the plastic of the portable table. Jean-Éric stumbles a little, hobbled by how low the remains of his suit are sitting on his thighs, so André scatters piles of printouts in order to make room and lifts Jev up slightly to sit him on the edge of the table, which creaks ominously.

"If you break David’s favorite fold-out table, you're explaining it to him," Jean-Éric says.

"I mean," André says, unsnapping the cap of whatever bottle he found in Jev's things. "Technically speaking--"

The first touch of his fingers back over Jean-Éric's entrance is abruptly cool, but it's nothing he can't keep still and breathe through. André pushes two fingers in with almost no preamble, the lack of friction making it an easy enough slide that apart from Jev's immediate instinct to clench down, the stretch is barely noticable --

"-- if it's your ass that makes it collapse, am I really the one breaking the table?" André continues, and it take a minute for Jev to parse the sentence, what with André actively trying to make him come apart again.

Jean-Éric can't muster up much of a response, his legs sliding open wider because now that it isn't half overwhelming friction, the pressure of André's fingers is really unbelievably good. He goes to lean back onto his elbows, but André wraps his arm around his lower back, hauling him bodily forwards.

"Sit forward," André commands. "If you need to lean on something, lean forwards on to me, like -- yeah, like that."

Jean-Éric drapes his forearms around André's shoulders, and it's an awkward position, crumpled forwards like this with André between his legs, using his bulk to keep Jev's legs spread a touch wider than comfortable despite his relative flexibility.

"You look so good like this," André says as he slides in a third finger. "And fuck, but you feel even better, your ass is incredible -- you think you can take four?"

"I don't --" Jean-Éric gasps, the noise mingling with a half-incredulous laugh. "I don't know, André."

Jean-Éric loses his words all together when André reaches for his cock hanging heavy between them, slides his slick fist along the length of it once, twice -- tight and in absolutely fucking perfect counterpoint to his fingers fucking against his prostate and -- and stops, even as Jean-Éric mewls in high-strung panic, "No, god, I was so close --"

André hushes him, the hand no longer stroking his cock coming up to caress his face, to cradle the back of his neck, pulling him down and collapsing him on top André even more as André twists his hand in a -- fuck, an obscene screwing motion and slowly, _slowly_ fits his pinkie in alongside his other three fingers. Jean-Éric doesn't, he's not -- he’s definitely just making a constant stream of sound now, something like a sob broken up by the motion of André's hand and his body's need to breathe. He's so full, his ass is stretched so wide, and the way André's tucking in his fingers to rub the ridge of his knuckles along where Jev needs him to fucking press and press and -- it's way too much, it's way too much and Jean-Éric still --

"You can come like this," André says, and Jev groans half because it's all he can do and half because André sounds so goddamn sure --

André can't quite reach him for a kiss, but licks at his mouth all the same, keeping up a quiet stream of encouragement, and Jean-Éric shakes, and shakes, and _finally_ fucking comes.

André being under him is about the only thing that stops him from sliding onto the floor, but André nudging him onto his back for some reason and -- oh, that's. André's pushing his hand through the come on Jean-Éric's chest, his other hand pushing down his own thermals, which catch on André's own erection, getting a slight grunt out of the man, even as he then uses the hand covered in Jev's fucking mess to jerk himself off with an deathgrip, his fingers blanching, that Jean-Éric would be more concerned by if André wasn't already cursing, and slumping forward himself, fucking into his fist as his eyes start to flutter shut.

Jean-Éric watches André come neatly into his fist biting his own lip, the man slowly sinking down and letting the table adjust to their combined weight. He -- actually, what Jean-Éric _should_ do is check his phone to see if he's been summoned for air time yet, but god, really doesn't want to. André props himself up a bit, rolling his shoulders, and looks Jev right in the eye as he proceeds to lick his hand clean of them both. It's absolutely disgusting, and there are a million things Jean-Éric could say, at least two half-decent jokes, but what he finds himself doing against the odds is pulling André down on top of him and kissing him.

Their come is bitter, and frankly awful combined with the leftover Aveeno André misappropriated for the task hand, but --

"I definitely don't taste like champagne anymore," Jean-Éric says after teasing his tongue along the ridge of André's teeth in a way that makes him press closer to Jev underneath him.

André laughs into Jev’s mouth and kisses him harder.

**Author's Note:**

> CW: alcohol consumption, Andre is a bit pushy at points but it's an established relationship and Jev doesn't see it as pressured consent, fingering -- initially without lube, improvised lube, somewhat public sex, come-swapping I _guess_ , but yeah, uh not the safest sex practices, and it gets a bit raunchy.
> 
> My [tumblegor](bozplz.tumblr.com) if you want to contact me, especially if I didn't warn for content you'd like a warning for. Asks are on.


End file.
